


Sonnet 65

by peppermintquartz



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 21:59:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14387973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peppermintquartz/pseuds/peppermintquartz
Summary: If Magnus Bane had a flaw that he willingly admitted to himself, it was that he believed in love. He couldn't help it. Love, to Magnus, was the one magic everyone could perform and yet no one could master; it was the greatest mystery and the greatest delight of living. Love could perform miracles.





	Sonnet 65

If Magnus Bane had a flaw that he willingly admitted to himself, it was that he believed in love. He couldn't help it. Love, to Magnus, was the one magic everyone could perform and yet no one could master; it was the greatest mystery and the greatest delight of living. Love could perform miracles.

Ragnor said it was Magnus overcompensating for the lack of parental love; Raphael didn't understand it, but accepted it as part of him; Camille had jeered, calling it his ultimate weakness.

After Camille, Magnus decided that she was right. He wanted love. His yearning was a weakness. He locked that part of him away after that disastrous relationship with the vampire. He was the High Warlock of Brooklyn, he would have no lack of willing partners for a tumble or two or five.

And then he met Alexander.

***

Alexander Lightwood, tall, handsome, deliciously _innocent_ in a way that stirred Magnus' protective instincts and lust all at once. The flush on his skin whenever Magnus made a pass at him, and the sheer, hopeless yearning Alexander had for that boorish, cocky Jace. They were parabatai, but Jace couldn't even see that he was hurting Alexander every time he talked about Clary Fairchild.

When Alexander scrambled away from the memory demon, the horror and self-loathing in his eyes made Magnus want to shelter the young shadowhunter from all the hurt in the world. That should have been his first clue.

By then it was too late.

Magnus Bane, for all his warlock prowess, was already helplessly falling for Alexander Lightwood.

***

That night when Luke was recovering in Magnus' loft, Alexander chose to stay, saying that he would watch the werewolf. Instead, he hovered around the warlock. He cleaned the sofa and wiped up the spills where Clary had stirred too agitatedly.

It was only after two drinks (okay, five) that Alexander unwound somewhat, and that was when Magnus realized how far he was gone.

“You're very different from everyone I've ever met,” the young man admitted much much later into the night, gaze lowered to his drink. They were sitting side by side at the bar, knees tantalizingly close.

Magnus topped up Alexander's drink. For someone who claimed not to be a drinks person, Alexander was surprisingly tolerant. Magnus had been very pleasantly surprised in many ways already by the shadowhunter.

“You're so... you're so genuinely _you_. You're who I wish... I mean, I don't do the whole, um. Glitter. But, I always know who you are, and, and where you stand. I-I don't know if you know what I mean but... um.”

He smiled, shy and exasperated at the same time, and stole a glance at Magnus from beneath his lashes.

Magnus felt his heart skip at the smile. “I have no reason to hide who I am, Alexander. I don't want to waste time conforming to others' expectations.” 

“I wish I could be that brave.” Alexander downed his drink and blinked. Then he yawned hugely. “Whoa. Um. I should... I shouldn't drink any more. I need to get back to the Institute early.”

“No more,” Magnus agreed, taking the cocktail away from him. Gently guiding Alexander to the sofa, Magnus handed him a tall glass of water and, while Alexander made himself comfortable, the warlock got a blanket for him.

Before Magnus could excuse himself to his own bedroom, Alexander grabbed hold of the edge of his sleeve. The warlock gazed at his guest fondly. “Yes, Alexander?”

“You sure you're okay? You were exhausted. From healing Luke,” Alexander murmured, a tiny frown on his sleepy features. He yawned again. “S'ry. I shouldn't have kept you up talking 'bout nothing.”

“Don't worry. You offered me your strength. Now sleep, my sweet angel.” The endearment slipped out before Magnus could censor himself. He kept the easy smile on his face, careful not to betray the rising panic in his heart. “I'll wake you in the morning.”

Thankfully, Alexander was already nodding off to pay attention to the warlock's choice of words.

***

It had been so simple to avail himself to the Institute. To his other Downworlder friends, it was obvious that Magnus Bane had a vested interest, cooperating with the Nephilim. To Isabelle, it was clear as day what his vested interest was, and she encouraged him to pursue it.

Unfortunately, the subject of his pursuit refused to acknowledge the warlock's interest.

It wasn't that Alexander didn't know that Magnus wanted to know him better. The shadowhunter just refused to allow himself to explore that avenue.

Magnus knew what was inhibiting Alexander, and Demons help him, one day he'd love to master time travel just so he could go back to the days of the founders of the Shadowhunters and just kick their homophobic, rigid asses. The damage wrought on all the queer Nephilim over _centuries_ due to their stupid rules should have sent the original Shadowhunters straight to hell.

He'd settle for banishing Maryse and Robert Lightwood to an island infested with venomous snakes. And then magically transport Komodo dragons onto that island.

(Fine, so Magnus had a smidgen of resentment against Alexander's and Isabelle's parents. Sue him.)

On more than one occasion, Magnus had noticed Alexander checking him out. On more than one occasion, they'd end up talking to one another standing just a little too close. On more than one occasion, they'd come into contact, literally, shoulder to chest or hand on arm, and Magnus knew he was not the only one whose breath caught in his throat.

And then Alexander told him about Lydia. About the wedding.

***

He drank. His liver had had a lot of practice dealing with his heartache, and he didn't care if he drank too much. Not on this night. Magnus' magic sparked off his fingers, but there was no flair to any of it. He was just trying to feel something outside of despair.

 _See, darling? You and your heart have always been too weak. Love is nothing but a lie you tell yourself._  Camille's mocking voice reverberated in his skull. Magnus mentally flipped her off. Of all his relationships, she was the worst. No contest.

But Magnus also knew that she wasn't completely wrong.

An immortal shouldn't think of love. Shouldn't _want_ love. Immortals were doomed beings, left to see the world pass them by, until all of humanity perished and they would be the only ones with the memory of people.

His desire to love and be loved was his weakness. It would always be the chink in his armor. He had watched some men and women he'd loved die. It had hurt so much, like ripping off an arm, and knowing there was nothing he could do. They had gone where he could not follow.

But to watch Alexander head into a future without love hurt worse. All that potential between them, unfulfilled, unanswered, unresolved. All for family honor, for political gain. All for his parents' pride.

He hurt more for Alexander – _Alec, call him Alec, he isn't your Alexander, never has been –_ because he knew that the young Nephilim deserved better. And Lydia deserved better. And, fuck, yes, _Magnus_ deserved better too.

Alexander – _Alec_ – had never kissed. Magnus was sure of that. He was sure that Alexander had never _been_ kissed, not with desire and love. And Alexander would be a loyal husband. He would never be touched and worshipped for who he was, by a person he desired and loved.

Magnus would have stepped aside if the young man had fallen in love with someone who loved him in return. It would have stung, but at least Magnus would have known that Alexander was in good hands.

_But not like this. Not like this._

“Not like you to give up without a fight,” said Ragnor's shade. His friend tilted his head and smiled paternally. “You know you'll hate yourself if you didn't at least try.”

“I don't want to hurt him.” Even now Magnus didn't want to hurt him. He couldn't.

“He's already hurting himself. The way I see it, you are his last chance.”

“He's a mortal, I'm a warlock.” Magnus set down his tumbler of whisky. “I know how it will end, even in the best possible scenario.”

“So you'd let him walk into the worst possible scenario?” Ragnor shrugged. “And here I thought you loved him.”

Magnus shut his eyes, trying to formulate a response. When he opened them again, Ragnor was gone.

“Fuck this.” The High Warlock of Brooklyn stood up. He would need to freshen up, and then he would put on his armor of makeup and glitter and that suit, the one he always wore when he was faced with battle.

He might not win this fight, but he sure as hell wasn't going to hide from it.

***

Alexander grinned at Magnus, blushing and shy, and pressed another kiss to the warlock's lips. The young man's hands were still trembling, but the light in his eyes told Magnus that Alexander felt free for the very first time in his life.

Magnus couldn't stop smiling. He didn't understand how Alexander could choose him, _did_ choose him, in front of all the Clave's representatives, in front of his _family_ , but he wasn't about to complain.

Love did perform miracles.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea  
> But sad mortality o’er-sways their power,  
> How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,  
> Whose action is no stronger than a flower?  
> O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out  
> Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days,  
> When rocks impregnable are not so stout,  
> Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?  
> O fearful meditation! where, alack,  
> Shall time’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid?  
> Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?  
> Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?  
> O, none, unless this miracle have might,  
> That in black ink my love may still shine bright.  
> \-- William Shakespeare


End file.
